


Recuperation

by sixbeforelunch



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixbeforelunch/pseuds/sixbeforelunch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor isn't dead. Fiona isn't sure if that's a good thing. Then again, neither is Victor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recuperation

They take turns watching him. He's not sure if it's because they like his pretty face or because they want to make sure he doesn't get ambitious and blow parts of the loft up again.

Sam is quiet, all-business except for the ever-present beer. He does perimeter sweeps every half hour and periodically searches the cot they scrounged up for him just to check that he hasn't been building bombs in his spare time.

Michael likes to talk. But he doesn't talk about just anything. No, he wasn't to talk about Victor. What was your family like? How did you meet your wife? Are you on medication for your mania? Would you like me to get you some? And Victor laughs because saving his life counts for a lot. (Or maybe not, he's still not sure how he feels about Michael's decision. After all, if Michael's little plan had failed, Victor would have ended up in _their_ hands, and he never would have forgiven Michael for letting that happen.) But Michael does not get a free pass to go poking around in his brain. Won't like what you find there, 'kay Sport?

He likes Fiona the best. She's a whole lot nicer to look at than Sam or Michael and since his life right now consists of pain, pain, and staring at walls, he appreciates a pretty woman to break up the routine. Plus, she doesn't trust him, still hates him a little for trying to kill Michael (or maybe just for threatening to take him away to Cuba) and unlike Sam who tries to pretend they can be buddies, she has no problem telling him this to his face.

Today she's wearing one of those absurdly short skirts of hers, and a tiny tank top with beaded straps. Her bare feet are resting up on the table and she's reading some magazine. He tries to crane his neck so he can see the title, but the angle is too steep.

"Hey, Princess!"

Fiona lifts the magazine up higher and Victor chuckles.

"What's a guy got to do to get a snack around here?"

"Fridge is over there."

Yeah, because walking is so much fun when you're recovering from a gun shot wound and the kind of surgery that takes place in the back room of a strip club, conducted by some doctor whose day job involves scrubbing the deep fryer at a burger joint because the AMA doesn't much recognize training and experience that took place in Bolivia.

"Come on, Princess, throw me a bone. Or a bacon double cheeseburger with fries, maybe."

Fiona sighs and puts her magazine. She comes over to his bed with a yogurt and a spoon.

"I hate yogurt."

"Then you're going to have a very hard time fitting in around here," she says, dropping it on the cot and walking away.

After a second's hesitation, he pulls the foil top and goes for it. Peach. Disgusting. He eats it anyway. He supposes Michael will be pleased to hear his appetite is coming back. Sport really is pathetic in his quest to save every lost soul that comes his way from the bad people of the universe. Victor was one of the bad people and now he's a lost soul. He thinks maybe his life will be easier this way, because being Carla's attack dog came with serious drawbacks, but realistically all it means is that as of right now he (maybe, assuming he decides he's okay with this whole being alive thing) owes Michael Weston and he doesn't think that's going to make his life easier at all.

Sam shows up a few minutes later for his shift and Victor calls to Fiona as she's leaving, "Princess. Next time you come, bring me some pudding cups? And maybe an extra magazine?"

Sam just rolls his eyes, but the next time Fiona comes, she brings presents. _Butterscotch_ pudding cups, surely her revenge for the nickname, but also a copy of US Weekly which is far better than Michael's collection of newspapers. He's pretty sure the magazine is revenge too, so he especially enjoys the look on Fiona's face when he says, "Hey, my favorite. You think I can get my subscription changed to come here?"

Fiona narrows her eyes at him and seems ready to snatch it back before he starts muttering about how K-Fed needs to hit a gym before he gets even fatter and then suddenly she pulls up a chair and asks him what he thinks of the dress Angelina wore to the Oscars and when Michael comes in a few hours later and catches the tail end of the conversation, the look he gives them is priceless.

He doesn't tell any of them that the only reason he reads that crap is because his wife used to keep up with celebrity love matches like he watched the baseball stats and he likes to have these conversations with her, in his head (or maybe out loud, he's not sure sometimes) and he has to keep up with the stuff she liked because she can't talk back otherwise.

It's crazy, but it's downright sane compared to what Carla had him do to that guy a few years back. That was the night he started talking to his dead wife because, well, yeah.

Two days later, he's on his way back from the bathroom and the effort of walking there and back doesn't make him want to curl up in a ball and cry which probably means he's on the mend. He decides to try sitting up for a while and flips idly through the magazine but he's read it and he can't talk to his wife right now because if he slips up and does it out loud it'll be no more sharp objects for him.

Speaking of.

He watches Fiona clean her gun. She's meticulous and careful and he has to appreciate her devotion to all things that go boom.

"Hey, Princess. When do I get my gun back?"

"Mmm, never."

Which actually means until Michael gives him one. Whatever.

"What if someone came in here right now and tried to kill me?"

"I would protect you." She shrugs and then mutters, "Probably."

"I think I should be armed."

"And I still don't trust you," she says. She gets up and walks to the fridge. "Pudding?"

Gag. He'd rather eat yogurt. "No thanks, Princess."

She doesn't even bother hiding her smile.

Being upright suddenly seems like too much of a challenge and he lays back in bed, staring up at the loft ceiling. "Seriously, Princess, give me something. I feel naked over here. You don't want to see that."

"Already saw it. Wasn't impressed."

Victor pushes himself on one arm and laughs. "You're my kind of girl, you know that?"

"I am not your girl."

"No, that's right you're not. You're Michael's. Listen, sweetheart, I'll tell you what. I ever decide to go after Michael again, I'll make sure and try to kill you first."

She looks at him finally. "Promise?"

He manages a one armed shrug with just a little gritting of his teeth. "Princess, from where I'm sitting, it just makes sense. Don't tell Sport, but he's a kitten compared to you. You scare the crap out of me."

She smiles. "Oh, that's so sweet." 

He falls back against the cot, tracking her with his eyes as she walks across the loft. She presses a .22 into his hands. 

He grins. "Thanks, Princess." He checks the clip. "No bullets in here."

She opens her other hand, letting the ammo fall onto the cot between his legs. "I think maybe we understand each other."

Victor laughs. "Yeah. I think maybe we do."

end


End file.
